


Feverish

by aPaperCupCut



Series: Slenderman Mythos Stories [3]
Category: Marble Hornets, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Fever, Fever Dreams, Hand Jobs, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex with Angst, Temperature Play, Unsafe Sex, chubby Tim, drool, first chap happens early in mh and second years later, ghosts??, jay hates his kinky ass, the first chap is smut lol, tim cries a lot in the second chap, tim is chub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: He's feverish, limp on his bed. His bones are liquid, and his skin shivers, but he's not cold. No, the heat is everywhere - it's overwhelming, a film on his brain that makes him see double, black bleeding into oversaturated, mirror copies of the room. Jay's kicked off the sheets, and wiggled out of his too-heavy, too-wet pajamas, and now he's just trying to breathe.There's a person he dreams about.





	1. After This

He's feverish, limp on his bed. His bones are liquid, and his skin shivers, but he's not cold. No, the heat is everywhere - it's overwhelming, a film on his brain that makes him see double, black bleeding into oversaturated, mirror copies of the room. Jay's kicked off the sheets, and wiggled out of his too-heavy, too-wet pajamas, and now he's just trying to breathe.

It's the god-who-knows- _n_ th time he' gotten sick for no apparent reason. This time, Jay's fighting a fever and lethargy, and an inability to move because his limbs just _won't._ He wishes he could at least watch something, review the tapes _again,_ but everything burns and burns and burns. He's swallowing a hot coal, and paying the price.

Jay doesn't see the man so much as feels him, looming over him with a presence that isn't a boulder, but more a mountain. A dangerous, unfamiliar mountain.

He leans over Jay, and Jay huffs a breath between clenched teeth. The man is wearing a thin, coarse shirt, and it brushes Jay’s oversensitive, sick skin unpleasantly. He can't feel the mortification, the embarrassment, over his own nudity; the world is still, but he himself feels off balance.

The man skims his hand over Jay’s stomach, over his ribs, up his chest. The fingers are thick, strong; the hand is powerful. Jay closes his eyes as the stranger - who he's not afraid of, and he can't tell why through the sickness that slows him - reaches with his other hand, drawing tight circles into the back of Jay’s heavy skull. His hair clings to the man's cold, cold fingers.

He can feel the man now - he's climbed over Jay, one foot still partially on the floor but the other leg is holding himself up, braced over Jay. He can feel the man's weight - the cold that he realizes oozes from the man’s skin in waves, pushing back the scalding heat in Jay’s body. He shivers, and as he moves, he realizes that the man’s belly is touching his own.

And the man begins to lower himself.

Closer, closer, and he's cold, so very very cold, a weight bearing down on Jay, forcing humid breath from his throat, a choke as he feels their bodies touch.

The weight is firm, dipping into the concave of Jay’s body, the evidence of his long, insomnia filled nights, and forgotten meals, day after day. He sucks in a breath, and can feel the movement of the man’s breathless laugh in his body, rippling through them both. It's soft, a belly of flesh, hair curling sparsely, only turning thicker down the curve of his soft underbelly. The man stops running through Jay’s hair, and suddenly he's naked, too. Jay can't help the sudden flush of blood in his face, and the man smiles - warm, despite the sudden chill in the room.

The man holds himself over Jay, yet their bellies touch, and Jay can feel his toes curl, his skin tingling, at the foreign feeling. Their bodies, so close together, so close together, and Jay _aches_.

A hand startles him, following the line of Jay’s thin torso. Down his side, lingering. Jay is breathing shallowly; he can feel the puff of the man’s lungs on his neck, feels his pulse jump as the man leans, pressing cold, smooth lips to the jugular. And still, their stomachs touch, and Jay is hyperaware of the hitches of breath between them. Of the movement of that heaviness, holding him still, round and cold.

The man touches Jay’s cheek, thumb brushing against his cheekbones. Jay can see the pinpricks of light, of freckles gleaming in the man’s irises, as he leans and presses another soft kiss to Jay’s forehead. And he runs his hand through Jay’s hair again, unwinding knots, sweat collecting on his fingers from Jay’s sickness. The sweat that Jay can feel coalescing between them, as the man takes in Jay’s infection.

Then, the hand on Jay’s side begins to move - a slow slide down, following Jay’s happy trail, and the burn in the back of his mind suddenly roars to life.

The man grins above him, as if to say, _‘ah. there we go.’_ And he arches his back, ever so slightly, and their pelvises align.

They're both hard. The man's dick is straining against his underbelly, the flesh there preventing it from standing at attention. Precome collects at the tip, the slit beautifully colourful against dark hair. A spark, electricity crackles through Jay - he can feel the slight rocks the man is making, their penises rubbing, slowly, _too_ _slow,_ against each other, and he feels his face heat and heat, and he almost moans, but he can't, he can't.

The man settles closer to him again, left hand still running through Jay’s soaked hair, right hand still paused at Jay’s groin. The weight comes back, and his heart begins to hammer - his face burns. His nether regions burn.

With his dick finally getting attention from his absent mind, he can feel every motion, ever touch - and he knows he's drooling, the spit trickling down his chin uncontrollably. The slow, _god it's so slow,_ rock of the other man's hips, the length of the other man’s dick, so hard and close and _coldcoldcold_ right beside his, and the belly - not hanging over him, no, pressingpressing _pressing_ against Jay, soft and heavy and he can feel the slight scratch of wiry hairs, the sparse hairs that grew thicker as they trailed down, the slight gasp of air between their bodies underneath the swell of the man's belly.

The man catches Jay’s glazed eyes, and he grins - teeth shining so bright, canines so sharp, as if to say, _‘I will make you scream.’_

And the man moves back, resting against his knees, and Jay, barely breathing, can't quite stop the moan, isn't even sure how to. The slip of the man's stomach over his own, the man's full, but flat pecs brushing over Jay’s erection - his blood runs hot, and he can't think past the burst of _goodgoodgood_ that floods his mind.

The man stops it, freezes Jay in place, his heart nearly stopping at the sudden, cold hand gripping his dick. When he can think, he finds the man staring straight at him, eyes bright and mischievous. He motions a ‘shhh,’ shaking his index finger in a mockery of ‘no.’ Jay nearly pouts, but his legs are jelly and he can't quite think past _‘oh god what is he gonna do this is too much, too much.’_

He almost thinks that the man is going to suck him off, leaning down with closed eyes, hair brushing Jay’s trail. But he only licks a line of cold saliva up Jay’s body, but it's not _only,_ is it, because Jay is trembling, and his dick throbs in time with his pulse, precome nearly coating the length. Then the man raises his head, and, eyes still closed, kisses the tip, pink tongue flicking out like a cat, licking up a small dribble of precome. And Jay can't stop shivering, his eyes fogging as his mouth waters and his hands shake, and sweat slides down his face. It's suddenly so hot, so unbearably hot, and all he wants is to drink - to drink and drink and never stop because he cannot ever be sated. The cold water is so tempting, so tempting to use it to abate the infection, the slow march to death.

But the man breaks his thoughts, breaks them like glass; his hand presses a slow path, gentle as he passes his nails through Jay’s hair. The other hand, god he's forgotten it, is rubbing firm circles into Jay’s back, squeezed underneath Jay’s body. Jay wants to laugh, at the shivering, fearful heat - and then a gasp is shocked out of him, and his face burns again.

The man has brought Jay’s leg up, and worked the hand on Jay’s down, groping Jay’s ass for a moment, the pressure cold and gripping, before creeping between his cheeks. But the man's not going to his asshole - not yet, anyway, and the thought is clear and almost _excited_ \- but travels the strange area between, before the man rearranges himself, and suddenly Jay remembers he's got _balls._

It startles a laugh out of him, and he can feel the vibration of the man's responding amusement. The man is soft, gentle, so in contrast of his heaviness and implied roughness that just that makes Jay tighten, and suck in stale air loudly through his teeth. The hand is steady, brushing the underside of Jay’s erection, as the hand that had so invitingly trailed through Jay’s groin hair takes hold of his dick.

It's slow - a slow pull, Jay breathing shakily, loudly, little sounds breaking away from him moment to moment. The man is intent, pumping Jay slowly, thoroughly - but when Jay gets close, squeezes his eyes shut, feels his heart sing and tears collect in his eyelashes - so close, and the man brutally stops, nails scraping the underside of Jay’s ass, nails scraping through the tangle of curls, away from Jay’s weeping erection. Each time, the shock of pain, however small, brings him incrementally closer, but he still can't, he still can't. He sobs, choked and small, stuttering through a withheld groan. Each time, he can feel the man smile against his thigh.

Fucking tease, is what Jay might've said, if he was anywhere near coherent, but all he can manage is a weak attempt to pull the man’s hands back to his neglected, crying cock.

Finally, the man seems to tire of the game, and pulls himself back up, back over Jay. Before he goes, however, he gives one last, small, licking kiss to the tip, as if to say goodbye. Jay wants to laugh, but all that comes out is a low, breathless whine, needy, and his face burns again at the sound.

The man is completely unconcerned with the sweat condescended on his skin from Jay, and when he touches Jay, he can feel the droplets of moisture roll back into him, eager for his heated, feverish skin.

The press of the man is familiar now, but his heart is still thumping along to his breaths, pulse strangely shaky. The man cools him, and he didn't even realize that he had heated up again while the man had been between Jay’s legs. He cools now, and sinks into the weight, his hips rolling up to follow that pleasant curve of flesh, that thick, hot dick, bigger than his own. The hair that scratches against his concave belly sends sparks of heat through his blood, but it's pleasant and his eyes water. Again he's drooling, and he realizes that one of his hands, attached to that useless, floppy limb called an arm, has managed to reach up, following the delicate swell of flesh, and the man lets out a low, quiet groan at the touch.

Jay can't keep his hand up, but the other man can; he grabs Jay’s, hand holds it there, pressing into his cold belly. It's near silent except for their haphazard, out-of-sync breathing, white noise crackling at Jay’s subconscious. He wants to bury his face into the man, wants to grab hold and be held, in that strong grip, against that solid weight. For a moment, he can see tears collect in the man's eyes - and then, unanimously, they drop the hand.

The man leans further down, eyes still saddened - and Jay, through the haze, doesn't understand. But the man leans down; he butterfly kisses Jay’s clavicle, and the bones that stand out there, before flowing up his neck, pausing only briefly on his pulse point, and then, the corners of Jay’s wet mouth.

The man smiles against Jay’s skin, completely unheeding of the drool that’s collected there. And then he raises his head, and grins, teeth and all, at Jay, and Jay can hear the unspoken words:

_‘I will make you_ feel. _’_

And the kiss is open, teeth clanging and vicious, and it's like they're swallowing each other, hot coals laying on each other's tongues. It's messy - spit flows out of the corners of each other, flowing down their chins and necks, and when they turn their heads, they get it on their cheeks, too. Messy and painful and Jay can _feel_ everything.

He can feel the slide of their erections against each other, the slick of their combined precome wettening their bellies. The man is a heavy storm cloud, rolling and cold, battering against Jay’s shores; and Jay doesn't care. He can feel blood in his mouth, his tongue full of the taste of the other man - something frozen, something of the forest, something of smoke. He's nicked his tongue on the other's teeth, and all he wants is more.

But the man separates, harsh breathing a staccato, only effective for shooting spikes of pleasure down Jay’s body, shaking him and curling his toes and hands. A string of spit connects them, but the man leans down once more, eyes closed, and swipes his tongue over Jay’s still open lips.

When they stare, once more, into each other's eyes, the man is still bright, still so stark in Jay’s feverish vision, full of bleeding fuzz and twisting shapes. Still so real, and grinning widely, too.

The man holds up a hand, counting down slowly from five - and Jay’s breath lodges in his throat, but before he can do anything, the man reaches down, and, with a grunt, hefts Jay’s legs up, wrapping them around his middle. Jay can't process it, the suddenly much closer press of the man's girth against his genitals, the sudden press of the man's cold-hot dick against the back of his balls and between his ass cheeks, before the man is sliding a finger in.

The pain jolts him, and he seizes, tightly, around the intrusion, a broken groan breaking the soundlessness. His dick pounds, and he can feel his balls tighten.

He's panting, as the man works the finger, covered in precome and spit, further in. His hips jerk, the bounce of their bellies colliding just spiraling in his mind. He can't stop the sounds now, drool cascading down his chin again, the moans and groans turning louder and louder. Behind them, the man lets out small, quiet sounds as well, and he can feel the steady rock against his own feverish, halting thrusts.

Another roar of pain, and he throws his head back against the mattress, eyes rolling in his head, nose running. He can't stop, the pain screaming in hot-cold pleasure, electrical spikes of _feeling_ arcing through him, and he arches his back with it, willing the fingers to push in deeper. To _touch_ him deeper.

The slap of their bodies - it's not enough. He wants to be close, he wants to be close, closer, until they blend and devour whatever's left. He can’t think.

The bed creaks under them, and another finger pushes in.

He pulls the man down, pulls the man closer with strength he doesn't have. Their foreheads align, and he grabs at him, gropes the weight at his middle and wills himself to _drown_.

Instead, another finger is added; the man's thrusts are much harsher now, cock almost painfully pushing up between Jay’s legs. Jay doesn't care - his own erection, so hard it is a supernova of pain and _good_ that the moans are more shrieks than anything else, is pressing an indent under the curve of the man's belly. Hefty weight is almost crushing him when the other man suddenly takes his fingers away, all at once, and Jay howls at the sudden withdrawal - and then the man slides himself in.

The pain nearly makes him blackout - and then the shear _pressure_ makes him white out.

They're clawing at each other, thin red lines on each other's arms, the man's buried his face against Jay’s cheek, and they're pouring every drop of energy into each other.

Each shift of movement, each push and pull of their hips in sync, unable to stop, not even wanting to despite the screaming pain in the back of his mind. Instead, he's all muscle and bones, brain liquid, as he feels the wobble of the man's belly as he moves. Jay pushes his dick into every motion, pushes his dick into the fat and hard cord of muscle underneath, feels it pad the erection each time, feels the hair scratch and pull, and sparks crack in his vision with each tug.

The man's own penis is full and thick, and Jay can feel, without seeing, the swell of his stomach accommodating the intrusion. He feels unbearably full, but each push of the man forces it in deeper, and deeper, and suddenly he wants to swallow it whole, because each time it hits the walls inside with enough power to shake him, force water out of his eyes and snot out of his nose and spit out his mouth. He can't breath, suffocating, each thrust that manages to catch his prostate forcing a scream, and he's so close, but it takes so long, so long.

He blows seconds before the man does, semen spurting over the man's stomach, splattering on their chests, and then it trickles down between the crevices of their bodies as the flow slows. He breathes shakily, still thrusting, his dick soft but his heart still pounds.

The man, when he comes, doesn't stop either; his thrusts, if possible, turn even more frenzied, the flood of semen pushing up, and Jay can feel the weight in his stomach, can feel the swell and slosh of it inside of him, even as most of it escapes.

The man doesn't pull out, and Jay doesn't think about it. He can't think clearly, the feverish haze still dizzying. Yet, he is no longer hot, like the cold of the man would stay with him, a remnant, just like the seed in his stomach.

They lay there, rolling their hips lazily, unable to harden again but unable to let go of the quiet satisfaction, even though Jay knows that it would stay only for a short while.

He wants to devour. He wants to be crushed.

He wonders if the man would be up for another round; he would totally suck the guy’s dick. He would. He isn't normally interested in blowjobs - but. If the man just stays.

The world begins to spin, and he feels sick with the thought. That the man would leave.

The man's cold, slightly sticky digits touch Jay’s shoulder, then his cheek. His eyes appear to ask -- _‘was it good?’_

God. God, it was.

The man's still holding him - his dick’s still inside Jay, and Jay is still pressed up against the fold of his belly, still covered in sticky white fluid. His limbs are still weak, and his sweat clings to the man like skin to dry ice. And Jay is… Jay is…

“Yeah. It was really, really good.”

The man smiles. His eyes are so soft, so sad. His hair’s a mess, a contrast with its usual, casual style. He wants to pull his hands through that hair, feel the soft and thick strands. Wants to know if the man would like that.

_‘Next time, do you want to top instead?’_

And Jay smiles, and wakes up.

 

* * *

 

He's sweated out the fever, still naked and crusty with dried sick. He's confused, at first, blinking blearily around the room, as if waiting for it to shift and change. As if waiting for the man to come back.

It's only when he shakily presses a hand to his eyes, rubbing flakes of dried whatever from them, that he realizes.

He sits up immediately, way too fast, and lurches to the side of the bed, hacks and dry heaves until the nausea passes. When he looks up, carefully looking at the room, noting every change - he knows.

It was a dream. Just a fucking fever dream.

He grips his hair, chokes back an abrupt sob. Why would he be crying? It's just a stupid fever dream. He gets them every time, whenever he's so sick he can't do anything except sleep. And yet, he feels like crying.

He takes several deep breaths, trying to counteract the panic, but his mind scrambles. The man in his dream -- he looked so familiar -- didn’t he…

Wasn't he…

He can't hold back the hyperventilating, but he can't cry. It's not whatever was weeping in his chest moments ago - no, it's guilt, it's horror - it's shame.

God.

It was Tim. Tim.

What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck kind of shit was _that?_ What kind of person is he - to, to dream of something that, that _disgusting?_

He wants to scream. He wants to hurl something off his bed, he wants to hurt something, but all he can do is _sit_ here and do _nothing._ All he can do is scream, and scream - _you disgusting piece of shit! what the fuck’s wrong with you? nobody would look at another person and, and think of-_ \- and squeeze his hands, leave imprints of his nails in his legs.

He doesn't notice the empty window, blowing in cold, autumn air.


	2. I Will Miss You.

He's feverish, tense on his bed. His bones are liquid, and his skin shivers. The cold is everywhere - it's overwhelming, a film on his brain that makes him see double, black bleeding into oversaturated, mirror copies of the room. Tim’s curled up, back to the wall, naked and shivering. His clothes became too wet, soaked with sweat and tears, and he had scrubbed at his arms, unable to stand the texture. It left the taste of soapsuds on his tongue, and he still struggles to hold back the bile.

He can't see straight. Every time he blinks, the world wobbles and fuzzes, and he has to orientate himself, fight back nausea. He doesn't do very well with fevers. Tim doesn't get sick very often anymore, but when he does, it's a horrible experience.

The TV in the corner of the room keeps flickering. He blames the rainstorm outside, the water pitter-pattering on the roof and thunder breaking the sounds of his nasally breath too confusing for his mind to process. He blames the TV clicking on and off on the weather, instead of thinking about the dangling cord, unattached to any plug.

Each time it turns on, it lets out a blast of static, black and white light near blinding him. Still, when he hears it, he forces his burning eyes open and he stares. His whole body aches, trembling muscles unable to even clench, as much as he wants to curl tighter around his core, but each time he straightens a little bit, tensing. Tim doesn't know what he's waiting for.

He guesses that he'll always be waiting for something he doesn't know, always be waiting for something that'll never come.

Eventually, he loosens his grip, unable to keep himself curled into a ball, his stomach turning. He rolls, closer to the sputtering TV, and lies limply, sprawls on his side. His body protests, but he can't bring himself to care. His throat burns, and his fingers are ice on his hot, clammy face. He closes his eyes, and a mist rolls over him for what seems like an eternity.

A sound, and he startles. They blur, the figure crawling out of the television, black charcoal limbs, a hoodie and a cap stark on their figure. Tim blinks, again and again, trying desperately to clear the fuzz from his vision, but the black spots deform and twist them, again and again.

But their face - their face sharpens, ever so slightly, as they step closer. Slow, a slow walk - Tim’s breathing grows faster, faster, with each soundless footstep, each silent movement of their hips. Until they kneel, face to face with him.

“Hi, Tim,” He says, and he's got his wide brown eyes locked on Tim. He can't look away, and he's hyperventilating. “Oh, jeeze. You ok?”

Jay. Little Jaybird, small and quiet and _smart,_ and Tim chokes on a thousand words.

And Jaybird touches him, a soft press of warm phantom fingers on his bare arm. Tim feels queasy, dizzy, like the world is slow and fast at the same time. His eyes feel unbearably wet.

“Tim? It's ok, I'm right here.” Concern. Concern, bleeding into casual earnestness. Erasing what was and leaving only what is.

There is no ‘will be.’

And Jay climbs onto the small space left on the bed, slips right on so that he's laying on his side, face to face with Tim. His long legs nearly dangle, and Tim can't quite stop the stuttering, quiet laugh the bizarre sight forces out of him.

Jaybird pulls his cap off, leaving it on the carpet. He reaches towards Tim, hands barely touching Tim’s temple, fluttering through his sweat soaked hair. “It's ok. I'm right here. It's alright.”

“It's not,” Tim croaks out, and he can’t see the details of Jay’s face through the tears. “It's not ok.”

Jay shuffles closer, and their hips touch. He threads his legs carefully with Tim’s locked limbs, and wraps his arm across Tim’s back. They're so close, almost nose to nose, and Tim feels disgusting. Pathetic, crying like this. With tears on his sweat crusted skin, muscles shivering uncontrollably. God, he's a mess.

Jay doesn't say anything for a long time, simply rubbing circles into Tim’s back, simply running his hot fingers over Tim’s cheek. He feels upside down, his heart beating in his throat, the warmth of Jay bleeding into his frozen corpse of a body. He wants to move closer, closer to the soothing presence of his friend, but he wants to tug his arms away, press his aching back against the wall, get _away._ He doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't want to see this.

“Shh, shh,” Jay whispers, breath puffing against Tim’s face. And he realizes that he's crying, soft, wrenching sounds, sobs that aren't full bodied but still hurt his chest. “It's ok.”

He wants to protest again, but everything _hurts._ Jaybird’s hand rubs up and down his side, forcing his breath to hitch each time it runs down his ribs and along a sensitive spot. And still, he can't stop the tears, the stuttering inhales and exhales, so loud in the quiet.

The rain is far away. The television doesn't make a sound. Jay whispers, a continual stream of words - and Tim can't hear, can't listen through the sound of his heavy head and heavy heart. His face is completely wet, clammy and unpleasant, even with the heat of Jay so close to him. God, his heart _hurts._

It's like an age passes, as his sobs grow and then die. And Jay, Jay stays, hands delicate and soothing. His very presence pushes away the confusing jumble of thoughts in Tim’s head. Tim's so scared, but he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand _why._

“Hey. Tim?” Jay jostles him. They have fallen into silence, and Tim lolls his head. He sniffles, and realizes, even though it's quiet, he still is crying. The urge to truly sob, to push out the heavy sound in his chest, breaks over him. He curls, and pushes his head against Jay’s chest.

“...Tim?” A whisper. He can feel Jay’s soft mouth on the top of his head. “It's ok to cry. It's ok. I'm here. It's ok.”

Tim can't.

A sob breaks out of him anyway, a lurching sound that forces his mouth agape. There's drool, and snot, and tears, and everything is so very loud. And Jay keeps touching him, running fingers through his hair, holding him tightly, even though he's such a stick that it's more like he's laying on top of Tim. But he doesn't care - neither of them do. Tim cries, and cries, muffled and loud, against Jay’s thin chest, shakes and shivers under Jay’s limbs.

The cold wants only to swallow him, consume him - but the heat wants to tear him apart, disintegrate him. He doesn't know why he's crying anymore. Jay’s hands feel so real. Everything feels so real.

Tim feels more real than he has since he died.

“You know, you're so very cold.”

Tim huddles closer. His heart pounds, and his legs ache. He doesn't want to cry anymore. The tears won't stop. Nothing ever stops, no matter how much Tim wishes for it to.

“When I first met you, I thought, wow.”

Jay’s breathes are so warm, puffing hot air against his hair. Belatedly, he remembers that he's naked. Belatedly, he realizes that Jay is running a hot hand across his stomach, over and over. He closes his eyes. He can't figure out how it makes him feel. He can't figure out why he's not upset, not uncomfortable. At least, he's not bothered by Jay’s delicate fingers, gentle on Tim’s belly hair.

He's still crying.

“That guy’s real cool! Wonder if he'd mind hanging out some time.” Jay pauses, and his hands freeze in their tracks. Tim curls tighter, pressing closer into Jay’s warm body. “Kind of dropped that idea, though. Alex didn't like you, and besides, you were - _are_ \- so cool. Why would you hang out with a fucking - a fucking _freak_ …?”

Jay continues softly running his hands over Tim, warm hands soothing against Tim’s prickly skin. Tim can't respond. He doesn't know how.

“I - I mean. Even before… I knew I was… really weird. Really, really weird. Guess I was right in being scared of it - just, back then, it was for the wrong reasons.” Jay sighs, and Tim wishes he’d just stop fucking crying so he could do something - _anything._ It wasn't Jaybird’s fault.

“I just…”

Jay is so very close. His lips mouth words against Tim’s temple, catching against the curve of his ear.

Tim's heart begins to pound, and his pulse roars in his ears. He can feel Jay shift in place, his bones sharp even through his clothes. He could feel Jay’s hip bones through the other man’s jeans, feel them against his thighs. He wishes he hadn't come closer, and yet his pulse is a ringing bell in his ears.

“You're so cold, and I…” Jay halts. His breathing is shaky. Tim can't stop his hand from grasping the other’s shoulder, can't stop the tears that follow, or how he tries to pull Jaybird closer. “I really wanted…”

Jay’s lips against his forehead. Chapped, dry. Warm. He's still breathing. He's still speaking.

“I really wanted to be… to be _here._ With you.”

Tim wants him to be _here._ He wants him to mouth words, and breath, on his cheek - on his lips. He wants Jay’s breath on his thighs, his rough lips on his spine. God. He can't breathe.

His cheeks are still wet.

“I wanted…”

Close. So close. And it's still far, far away, never to come back. No, never again, not that it had ever been in the first place.

“I wanted to be close, like this.” And Jay is melting into him, hips and legs and arms together, Tim wrapped in the empty valley of his chest. “I wanted to be…”

And Tim looks up, eyelashes clumped with tears that he can't stop, looks up and faces Jay’s bright eyes, sharp and brilliant and _sad._ God. His mouth burns.

A puff of hot air. Close, so close.

Jay’s smile, gentle and small, against his mouth. Tim’s mouth is open, loose, sick and repulsive - and yet, Jay presses a sweet kiss against him, again and again, closed and shivering.

Tim is shaking.

Soft, so very soft, and blending into him. His heart is shuddering, but it's warm, so very warm, like the first sunbeam through dark clouds. Like the first song of a dying bird.

Chapped, and dry, and soft, against his teeth and tongue and lips. And Tim can't stop silently crying.

“...I wanted to be close, like this.”

And they're smiling, together--

And he wakes up.

 

* * *

 

His face is still wet, something gross caked on the side of his face. His joints are pinpoints of pain, and he can't remember what happened, can't remember why he's laying on the bed, shivering and alone. His gut churns, and he abandons rubbing the weird shit off of his face to instead scramble for the edge of the bed, unable to stop the deluge of bile that squirms its way out of him.

Tim blinks rapidly, caught up in gasping for breath and alternating between spitting out clumps of black goop and puking with his entire body, every muscle straining in pain when his stomach lurches. The pile on the floor is hot coming out of his mouth, stringy and black. Spots of red speckle the mess, but he closes his eyes when his body finally calms, the taste of rot and old blood in the back of his throat. He doesn't care.

He lays there, one arm hanging limply over the edge of the bed, the other crushed painfully underneath his weight.

Everything hurts.

When his head finally stops pounding, he blearily opens his eyes, exhaustion pulling on his eyelids. Every limb burns, but his heart is climbing, struggling up his throat.

His eyes water, and he chokes.

Tim struggles, sitting up with way too much effort, panting and panicking. The room is exactly as he left it - messy and dirty and cheap.

He pushes his palms into his eyes, a steady whine building inside him. He huffs and pants, the air tasting stale and painful.

He knows. He knows it was a dream. Hell, even _inside_ the dream, he knew.

A fucking fever dream.

Jay’s been dead for almost a decade.

Jay’s dead.

His shoulders shake. The whine is broken, broken glass in his throat. His eyes hurt. Everything hurts.

Everything always fucking _hurts._

There's a cap on the floor, black spattered on the rim, but Tim doesn't notice. The rain continues on outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im trying to be brave by posting this unnecessarily without anon, but goddamn ill orphan this thing as soon as i get too nervous lol
> 
> anyways can you tell which was the fever dream and which was reality? one happened and one didnt. ill give you an internet cookie from 2009 if you guess correctly

**Author's Note:**

> pls dont kill me
> 
> lol really had this stuck in my head. wrote a perfect version in my head while working. apparently standing in front of an industrial dish washer makes you horny or something
> 
> but um. im deciding to be an absolute idiot because im not putting this on anon. pls dont kill me its 2 am
> 
> also im not proofreading this again you guys can deal, yeah?
> 
> anyway tims hot thanks for coming to my tedtalk (thanks tim for the existential crisis)


End file.
